


The Viking And The Samurai

by sesquipedalianMarquis



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Blowjobs, Body Dysphoria, Centaurs, Cock Worship, Cultural Differences, Dirty Talk, Facials, Fellatio, Fluff and Smut, Homoeroticism, Horse cock, Humor, Insecurity, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Male Slash, Monsterfucker, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Orcs, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Samurai, Sappy, Shameless Smut, Size Difference, Slash, Smut, Surprise Facial, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Teratophilia, Undressing, Vikings, Wholesome, ball play, bc stallions dont have nipples fun fact, centaur men dont have nipples, handjob, reciprocated blowjobs, the centaur is insecure about being a centaur, the orc just wants to love on him, warrior gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27050545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesquipedalianMarquis/pseuds/sesquipedalianMarquis
Summary: Daizō, the centaur samurai, is not desperate, he's not. He's distinguished and dignified and loves his family, and being single is something he's done for ages. It's just never worked, finding a long-term lover, despite the fact he's noble, rich, a brilliant fighter and very handsome. Sometimes, you're just a single dad centaur, and that's okay.But that bizarre viking. Tyrval the Deathless. That strange, wild barbarian raider that fate and magic put under his care. They look at each other and it's like fire to dry grass, lightning to the highest tree. They make their way out of the cursed Forest, together, side by side and back to back, the tensest week of his life, through hunger and calamity, and Daizō wants him.Now they're back, and safe, and they have the time to fall into each others' arms, and they do. Oh, they do.
Relationships: Daizō Nakamura/Tyrval the Deathless, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	The Viking And The Samurai

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my friend E., who deserves the world and is my #1 reader. I love you, bro.
> 
> Daizō Nakamura is a centaur samurai. Tyrval the Deathless is a very confused viking who showed up in Fantasy Japan through shenanigans. They're currently falling in love dick first. Based on our D&D campaign--this shit's canon, y'all.

He leads Tyrval to his room in the monastery. The place is still too sparse for his liking, but he’ll make it a home. Daizō had been hesitant to admit it to himself, but given that they’ve now made him their daimyō, he’s here to stay.

“Sit somewhere,” he instructs Tyrval, who’s just looking around the room like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Lean against the wall, if you want. Not the paper one. And put away your weapons.” He hears Tyrval shuffle about while he’s searching his travel bag for—there it is, the clay pot of awamori.

When he turns to Tyrval with the pot and two small cups, the man is sitting a decent ways into the room, looking expectant. After removing his swords, Daizō settles next to him, towering more than a head over him now, and pours him a cup.

“Did you not want to lean against the wall? Your culture does not seem to sit on the floor much, it would be easier,” he comments.

“Aw, but if I sit there, you can’t sit next to me, can ye? What with the horse body, and all.”

Daizō doesn’t bother masking the light surprise on his face.

“Ah. I see.” He holds out the small cup, a lightweight thing of lacquered wood. Their fingers brush when Tyrval takes it. The touch lingers, settles in his skin.

“What is it?” Tyrval gives it a sniff.

“Awamori.” He pours himself his own cup, lets his sleeve fall off his wrist. Tyrval’s eyes stick to the skin, the calculated elegance of his hands. “I don’t know if there is currently any here in Osen-Toshi, but it’s common here in the south of Senbonsakura. We import it into Central. It’s stronger than sake and you seem like the kind of man who appreciates a strong drink.”

“Can’t say that I don’t.” Tyrval sips at the cup and nods. “Yeah, pretty good, actually. Less fruity than the other stuff.”

“This is the aged variant. A distinguished drink. It is often had watered down, but...”

“But I like a challenge, yeah.” Tyrval takes another sip. Their portions are small—Daizō isn’t risking them impairing their judgement.

He can feel Tyrval’s eyes on him when he sets down his cup and lets his hair down. It falls rather attractively along his shoulders and he throws a somewhat indecent look over the rim of his cup when he takes it for another sip.

“Well, that’s working,” Tyrval says, unsubtly.

Daizō huffs a laugh.  
“Just for the record, since subtlety is not your strong suit. I’m sharing my personal stash of liquor with you, rather than the village supply. Instead of the more neutral territory of a sitting room, you’re in my private room, which is rather intimate. And usually, I only unbraid or let down my hair to sleep. If we hadn’t previously negotiated a relationship, these would be what I would consider my incredibly obvious signals as to my intentions.”

“Y’know, drinking together in private does get the point across,” Tyrval points out. He shifts so he’s sitting a bit closer, but easily, plausibly deniable if that’s what he was looking for. Daizō doesn’t think he is.

A companionable silence falls between them as they taste their drink. Tyrval looks a little longingly at his axe, which is on the ground near one of the walls—he must be unused to being unarmed. Given what he says about his day-to-day life, it sounds likely the axe only leaves his belt while he sleeps. If even that.

“Y’know, when we talked outside. You said that—what was it?—dono was the right thing to call you. Nakamura-dono.”

“That’s correct.” Daizō turns to look at him, his expression neutral.

“In public, ‘s what ye said.”

“So I did.”

“This isn’t public, is it?”

“No, it’s not.” He sips his awamori. The cup is almost empty, despite the small sips; he really didn’t pour them very much. “I appreciate you making the effort to comply with our rules of conduct in public, but I’m not inviting you to my quarters in my role as daimyō Nakamura. This is personal, private. You may call me by my first name here. It’s Daizō. You don’t have to bother with honorifics when I’m about to suck your cock.”

The words seem to hit Tyrval like a blow. He looks up, his pupils blown wide. Daizō pretends to hide his gratified smirk behind his cup and watches Tyrval knock back the last of his drink in two gulps.

“Ahh,” he says. “That makes sense. Ye can keep calling me my name, I don’t really have anything else. Right. Daizō.” The name sounds strange from his mouth, the syllables foreign, but good. Charming. Respectful. “Are we waiting for anything with that then, anything particular?” His eyes are hungry now, catch on Daizō’s lips, on the neckline of his clothes.

“Well, now that you’ve finished your drink,” says Daizō and tips back the rest of his own cup. He sets it down and turns his attention back to Tyrval, who looks... uncertain, almost. It’s sweet on a warrior of his size and absolute reckless fighting style. “I think you should come here and kiss me. You’ll have to kneel up a little, but I think you’ll manage.”

“Aye, I can do that.” Tyrval scoots over at a speed that is honestly surprising for a man of his age. Their height difference is negligible, like this—their torsos are about equal, and Tyrval compensates easily for the height of Daizō’s lower body with his legs.

Daizō is surprised, almost shocked, by how gentle Tyrval is about it. From someone who fights like a cornered beast and swaggers about with not an ounce of modesty, he honestly expected less... tact, in this, so he’s floored when the viking tips up his chin with a soft touch and kisses him like a lover, passionate and forward and shockingly tender.

He’s always surprised at how easy it is to kiss around orcish tusks. The earthy taste of awamori lingers on Tyrval’s lips and Daizō chases it. He longs to grab the other man by the obi, or the neckline of his shirt, but he is infuriatingly (tantalisingly) topless. Instead, he hooks his hand around the back of Tyrval’s neck as if to keep him where he is, as if to say yes, this is exactly what I want.

They learn each others’ mouths, nowhere near frantic. Daizō runs a gentle touch up the small of Tyrval’s back and feels him move into it. Tyrval figures out Daizō likes having his hair pulled and makes copious use of it, gleefully tugs him back into yet another kiss to hear him sigh against his lips.

“Gods, you’re fuckin’ pretty,” Tyrval mumbles in a moment where they’re both catching their breaths, staring at Daizō’s mouth, one hand on his cheek and thumbing over the neatly groomed facial hair. “So pretty. I kinda thought you’d demand more wooing.” He breathes in like he’s savouring something. “Loki’s left nut, you even smell expensive.”

Daizō raises the one eyebrow he still can.  
“Wooing? Like, courting? I’m not trying to marry you, Tyrval.”

He huffs a laugh.  
“Nah, of course you’re not. I don’ even know if ye do marriage the same here as back home. Likely not.”

“I’d be delighted for us to compare cultures tomorrow.” Daizō hooks his hands in the waist of Tyrval’s weird, foreign trousers and pulls him close again. “Take off your cloak.”

“I’m actually gonna put this down proper, if you’ll let me go.” Tyrval unclasps his shiny feather-cloak and slides it off. It’s a nice sight—he’s got amazing shoulders.

“I’ll consider it,” says Daizō, tone light, and lets go of him. He stays where he is, watches Tyrval fold the cloak and place it with his weapons. He’s incredibly built for a man his age. Daizō observes him lean to put his cloak down and thinks about biting his shoulders, running his hands all over his sides. He’s always had a weakness for warriors who match or exceed his build.

“Come back here,” he coaxes, pulls Tyrval in for another kiss by the back of his neck. His other hand lands squarely on Tyrval’s pec, feels up the firm muscle, traces along his side.

“You like?”

“You’ll do just fine,” Daizō teases. He decides to take a chance, slides his hand down Tyrval’s side and feels up his ass.

“Oh. Hey, there,” says Tyrval, twines his hands in Daizō’s hair. “I’d return the gesture, but I can’t reach that far.”

“You can grab my waist. I’ve been told it’s very trim, for a centaur,” Daizō offers and immediately feels both of Tyrval’s large hands slide down to settle just over his first set of hips. It makes the angle for kissing worse, so he elects to kiss along Tyrval’s shoulders again. The man is covered in the scars of a life on the battlefield. It’s a miracle—a curse, according to him—that he’s still standing.

With Tyrval this close, his midriff pressed to Daizō’s chest, he can feel Tyrval’s cock taking an interest against his gut. He drags his fingers and then his fingernails down Tyrval’s back as he kisses down his collarbone and hears him hiss.

“Yeah, that’s it,” says Tyrval, tugs Daizō closer against him by the hair, which in turn makes Daizō groan.

Daizō’s hand skates over the front of Tyrval’s trousers, feels the outline of his dick against his palm. Tyrval’s breath hitches, he can hear it plain as writing and satisfying as crisp water on a hot day. He places another kiss on his chest and drags the heel of his hand along the curve of it, holds him in the loose fabric—he dresses to the left.

“You’re looking mighty pleased with your fine self,” Tyrval remarks breathily. He’s not quite grinding into Daizō’s hand, but he’s very deliberately not moving away either.

Daizō drags his hand over the length of him again, feels him stiffen under the cloth. He gives him a smile worthy of a fox-spirit.

“I’m going to put my mouth on you and hear you call on whatever gods it is you worship.”

“Yeah. Yeah, do that. How do you—“

“You sit down,” Daizō interrupts. “Or kneel, I don’t care. Where I can reach with my upper torso. Oh, and take off your trousers.”

“Gotcha.” Tyrval watches as Daizō lowers himself onto his side over on his futon, props his head up on his hand and gives him a smouldering come-hither look that might just incinerate a lesser man. He whips off his trousers without an ounce of self-consciousness and leans way down to give Daizō another scorching kiss before he kneels in front of him, legs spread.

Daizō takes in the sight before him. There’s a massive scar on one of Tyrval’s thighs, akin to a burn but not quite the same, that he trails his fingers over curiously before slinging an arm over his thigh to support himself.

“Put your hands in my hair again,” he instructs and Tyrval obliges without hesitation. The drag of his strong, callused hands over Daizō’s scalp makes him shiver pleasantly. He presses appreciative kisses up the non-burnt thigh until he’s face-to-face with Tyrval’s half-hard dick. His mouth waters at the sight.

He wraps his hand around the base of it and licks over the head, long and slow. He feels Tyrval stiffen against his tongue and laves him with attention until he’s hard as nails.

“Norns, you’re pretty,” Tyrval mumbles above him. On an impish impulse, Daizō looks up through his lashes to make eye contact with him, well aware of the effect his big, dark eyes had on lovers before, and flicks his tongue along the underside of Tyrval’s dick. The reaction is instantaneous; Tyrval grunts something in Orcish and _twitches_ on his tongue.

“Yes? Do you like how I look with my head between your legs? Or are you just thinking of the mess you could make of my face?” Daizō doesn’t wait for an answer, just places more wet, open-mouthed kisses along Tyrval’s shaft.

Tyrval’s fingers tighten in Daizō’s hair, sending a gratifying shiver through him.

“Gorgeous,” he says, “gorgeous. Both. I wanna see ye wrecked with it. Can I? Make a mess of you?”

“You have my explicit permission to come all over my face,” Daizō confirms and assumes the untranslated mumble on Tyrval’s lips is the Igrûn-Orcish equivalent of ‘fuck yes’. It certainly sounds enthusiastic.

Spirits, this man has a nice dick. Daizō had high hopes when he took a moment in the Forest to not just look at Tyrval, but _notice_ him, and he is not disappointed, not with his skill in kissing, not with the firm, grounding hands in his hair, not with the fat, flushed cock in front of him. He lays a lewd, wet kiss across the tip, feels Tyrval’s bright eyes heavy on him.

Tyrval’s rough-skinned hand is remarkably gentle as he teases tangles into the hair at the nape of Daizō’s neck. He drags his mouth down, follows a prominent vein down the shaft, looks up again with Tyrval’s dick heavy against his cheek.

“Fuck,” breathes Tyrval above him, pupils blown wide, traces his cheekbone with his knuckles. “I thought you might look pretty like that. Wasn’t sure you would, mind—“

“Didn’t think I’d lower myself so?” Daizō asks, amused, plays his fingers just under the head and watches Tyrval twitch with it.

“Didn’t know if it was your kind of thing.” Tyrval very lightly trails his thumb over Daizō’s upper lip. His voice is almost too soft to handle. “But Freya’s sake, I’m so glad it is.”

“It really is,” Daizō assures. Tyrval had been the one to announce his intent to make him scream, but that just stoked the fire of his competitive streak. He wants to make this man come apart.

He finally breaks the eye contact, with great regret—the unabashed want in Tyrval’s bright eyes has him feeling overheated and hard as nails. Instead, he shoves Tyrval’s thighs just a bit further apart and licks down his cock to the root, then lower to tongue at his balls with wet strokes.

Tyrval gives a ragged breath and hooks his hand around the back of Daizō’s neck, not to pull him away but to encourage him closer, spreads his legs so far his hips give a protesting crack that the both of them ignore.

“Is this okay?” asks Daizō, half out of his mind with the heavy scent of him, one hand keeping Tyrval’s dick out of the way. His hair is falling all over his face, but he doesn’t want it tied back like for battle or politics, wants it as messy and dishevelled as he’s feeling, here, private and safe to come apart at the seams.

“Yes, yes, Norns, don’t fucking _stop_ ,” hisses Tyrval. He tucks a stray strand of hair back behind Daizō’s ear, and oh, that’s a gesture so casual and sweet that Daizō can’t process it right now. Instead, he ducks his head back down, cups Tyrval’s balls in one careful hand and rolls his tongue over them until there’s spit dripping from his lips.

The word that Tyrval says is either a curse or one of his gods’ names. Either way, it may not translate by spell, but Daizō gets the message and feels a thrill of success down his spine. Tyrval takes hold of his dick, which conveniently frees up Daizō’s other hand, because he really needs to hang on to Tyrval’s leg while he reduces him to a panting mess. He doesn’t care much for the sensation on his end when he carefully tucks his teeth away and takes one of Tyrval’s heavy balls into his mouth, but Spirits, the noise Tyrval makes above him will stay with him for the rest of his days.

“Fuck,” breathes Tyrval, his hips twitching forwards like he’s trying and failing to hold still. “Fuck, yes, that’s good, you’re so good, don’t stop,” and Daizō doesn’t. He doesn’t, he keeps mouthing over Tyrval’s balls and presses a knuckle up behind them, kneads over his perineum with a careful touch. When he gets the angle right, Tyrval moans, and Spirits, he’s _loud_. For a frantic second, Daizō wants to shush him, to remind him of the paper door, but— no, no. Fuck that. They’ve survived the cursed Forest and come back alive. If someone wants to take offence that their newly appointed daimyō fucks, they can address their complaints to the head of Tao Feng.

Instead, Daizō doubles down, drags sloppy strokes of his tongue all over the root of Tyrval’s cock, works a finger over his perineum until he can feel his thighs shake and clings to the sensation of Tyrval’s hand in his hair and the smell and taste and sound of him.

“Gods, you’re a fucking delight,” Tyrval groans, his hips jerking into Daizō’s movements. When he mouths over his balls again, Tyrval shudders and moans. “Fuck, the mouth on you. You–ah– treat me so good, Daizō.”

“Who knew I’d find your weak spot so easily,” he murmurs, nips at the inside of Tyrval’s thigh with that fox-spirit smile. “A man could get used to having you at his mercy like this.”

“You seem like a plenty merciful man right now,” Tyrval counters, sweetly traces the long line of Daizō’s ear.

Daizō shifts the shoulders of his horse-body to relieve a crick in his spine and feels Tyrval’s curious eye on him, on the unfamiliar movement. It occurs to him then that Tyrval may not know enough about horses, let alone centaurs, to really register the amount of vulnerability in his position—unarmed, prone. Stripped of his speed and his kicking power both.

Then again. Tyrval’s plenty vulnerable here, too. A fish out of water, a wanderer in foreign lands, a guest in his room.

“Maybe I’m feeling merciful tonight, yes,” he murmurs, whispers his lips over the head of Tyrval’s dick feather-light. Palms his balls again, firm and sure. Tyrval curses. “I want to make you come.”

“Your chances are pretty fucking good.” The viking’s dick twitches in his hand and he gives himself a slow stroke.

“Hold my hair and take my mouth, then,” offers Daizō. “Take your pleasure.”

“Ngh,” says Tyrval, looking a little like he got punched. “Say that again.”

That stokes the hunger in Daizō. He looks up through hooded eyes, licks his lips and soaks in the way Tyrval’s eyes track the motion with unabashed want.

“Fuck my mouth, Tyrval,” he says, each word a decided, deliberate thing, and he notices how Tyrval twitches again. He tips his head, chin forward, teeth tucked safely behind his spit-slick lips, an offering—irresistible, judging from how quickly Tyrval cradles his jaw in one hand and feeds him his cock with the other.

He was braced for something frantic and brutal, but again, just like when they kissed, Tyrval surprises him with his consideration and restraint. He moves slow, traces the line of Daizō’s cheekbone with a light touch of callused fingers. It’s easy, like this. Daizō can enjoy the sensation, the weight of him on his tongue. The heavy, bitter taste of pre wells up in his mouth and he presses his tongue against the head, swallows around it.

Tyrval’s right hand slides into his hair, short nails scratching over his scalp just right.  
“Hey,” he says, nudges Daizō’s hand on his leg with his left, then pushes it in-between. “Just in case. If you need me to let up, squeeze my hand twice, alright?”

Daizō grunts in reply and squeezes his fingers around Tyrval’s left once. At the affirmation, the viking’s grip on the back of Daizō’s head tightens, not quite pulling him down but holding him in place, head tipped back, open and vulnerable. Tyrval deepens his thrusts and Daizō lets practice take over, loses his train of thought in the sensation. His mind floats off to somewhere serene while he takes rhythmic breaths to accommodate the sizeable length of Tyrval’s cock. The viking leaves him enough time and reprieve to get air, though, so he doesn’t have to squeeze his hand in protest at all.

Distantly, he notes that really, they’re just holding hands, and that’s… so sweet. This strange, foreign warrior is holding his hand while throatfucking him. The strain has Daizō’s eyes welling with tears, but he can see just enough with his one good eye to be struck by how overwhelmed Tyrval is looking at him—and how awed. He’s all quiet moans and encouraging words, mouth out of sync with the magic, the bizarre translation offering him “beautiful, perfect, just like that…” and Spirits, he’s had an awful month, between the vine-monsters and the witch and Setsudan and the Shadow Kabuki, and he really didn’t notice how much he needed this, someone’s hand in his hair and low voice in his ear.

“Gods, you’re a mess,” Tyrval mutters above him, rakes his hand through Daizō’s increasingly messy hair. Daizō ignores him and keeps sucking him off in long luxurious movements, easily working with every shift of Tyrval’s hips. There’s spit absolutely everywhere and it’s glorious. He is a mess. He permitted Tyrval to make a mess of him.

As if he could read Daizō’s mind, Tyrval pulls him down enough for him to gag and whispers.  
“Told you I wanna make a mess of you.” He stops thrusting and Daizō just sucks him off harder. “Fuck, that’s it. Freya’s chariot, you’re so good, got me so close. Just a little more, can I blow my load on that gorgeous face?”

“Yes. Yes, do it.” Daizō pulls back just enough to speak, leaves his mouth all open and pretty, stares up at Tyrval. The viking grabs his cock and strokes himself off harsh and fast, chasing his pleasure. He’s biting at his lower lip, and Daizō wants to bite it for him, share Tyrval’s panting breath. Misses that hand in his hair. He still has Tyrval’s left under his, still just holding on, swordsman’s hands with almost the same calluses—but not quite, just different enough to be a matching set instead of an identical pair. He curls his fingers into Tyrval’s palm and feels him take his hand in his proper, just a second before Tyrval exhales a harsh moan and stripes his face with come.

A moment of silence falls between them while Tyrval just stares down at him, panting until he catches his breath. Daizō licks the salty taste off his lips.

“By the Valkyries,” says Tyrval, wipes a track of come off Daizō’s cheek with his thumb. “You’re real good.”

Daizō catches his thumb in his mouth, licks it clean slow and dramatic, hears Tyrval’s breath catch. The viking squeezes his hand.

“You did make a mess of me,” he tells him, with another of those fox-spirit looks from under his lashes. It lands square and centre.

“Gods have mercy, you’re a fucking sight,” Tyrval breathes and shifts himself down so he’s laying alongside Daizō’s upper body so he can kiss him, messy and passionate. He licks the taste of himself from Daizō’s tongue with a quiet moan, cleans the come off his face with his fingers and his mouth—it would be gross, to have someone lick at him like a beast, but in this moment, shared on Daizō’s futon, it’s just hot, makes him even harder. Now that he’s no longer floating in his own head, he notices how damn hard he is, aching on the soft linen of his sheets.

Tyrval moves from kissing Daizō to his neck, nestles his fingers along the neckline of his kimono. The scratch of his beard and the gentle touch of his lips across his soft skin sends pleasant shivers all the way down Daizō’s back.

“Hey,” whispers Tyrval, pressing the words into his skin. “That was fantastic. Lemme return the favour?” His voice is low, husky. “I wanna see more of you. If I can. I was looking, a little, back in the Forest, but y’know, it was the Forest. Lemme see you? Touch you?”

There’s nothing Daizō wants more than this man’s hands and mouth on his skin, right now, possibly yesterday. He shrugs his shoulders out of his kimono and Tyrval helps shuck it down to his waist with a downright reverent touch. There’s a broad, almost giddy smile on his face, shockingly open—Tyrval is always so easy in his mannerisms, so unrestrained in his expressions, feelings going every which way–

“So,” says Tyrval, suddenly frowning in puzzlement as he pushes the kimono to Daizō’s waist, smoothes his palm over the line of his shoulder, “you don’t…”

Ah. Of course.

“No, I don’t,” says Daizō and pulls Tyrval’s hand over the swell of his pec. “Most centaur men don’t have nipples.”

“Ah. So this isn’t weird, then.” Tyrval drags his hand over the smooth skin, unbroken by anything except a dusting of chest hair and the occasional scar.

“No, this is quite normal for a centaur.” Daizō tugs him close for a brief kiss. “Please, touch me.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Gave me a surprise is all.” Tyrval kisses Daizō’s shoulder apologetically, then gets distracted by the design of the koi sleeve. “I like your tattoos. Shame you keep so much of ‘em under your clothes, they’re so pretty.”

“I keep a great many pretty things under my clothes. Consider yourself a lucky man.”

“The luckiest.” Tyrval kisses over his collarbone, breath hot against his skin, and drags his fingers along the curve of Daizō’s chest, then does it again with more nails when Daizō leans into it. His hair is soft when Daizō tugs it free of its braid and cards his fingers through it, more wiry in texture than he’s used to on Sakuranbō humans and elves.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous,” Tyrval says, and shuffles down a bit so he can kiss his way down Daizō’s chest and stomach, and Spirits, it’s so good just to be touched with so much unabashed want behind each gesture.

The viking stops at the line of his hakama, one rough hand warm on Daizō’s waist.

“Gonna have to help me out a little if you want me to get you naked.”

“That’s where the… person half stops,” Daizō hedges, the familiar feeling of anxiety in the pit of his stomach—and there’s a lot of stomach. “Just horse from there.”

Tyrval looks up at him. He rubs his thumb over Daizō’s waist in a reassuring gesture.

“Won’t take it off if you don’t want me to. Daizō. Not gonna make you do anything you’re not into.” He presses another kiss to Daizō’s stomach, another over his ribs. Traces his hand over the stylised lines of smoke where the dragon tattoo ends on Daizō’s chest. His hands are large and warm and rough with use and Daizō likes them tremendously, how safe they feel. How reverent on his skin.

“But,” Tyrval continues, looks up again with that too-open, too-earnest look on his strange, bright-eyed foreign face, “if you’re just getting in your head, ‘cause you seem like the kind of guy who might, you can stop doing that. I think you’re hot and I’d like to see you naked. Touch you, if you’ll let me. You got me off fuckin’ spectacular, and I think it’s only fair if I return the favour, right?” He frowns at the ties of the hakama for a second. “You’ll definitely have to help me, though. I have no idea how those… trousers? how those trousers work.”

Daizō looks at him for a second as if he could read the truth from Tyrval’s face, but he’s just too strange, too different for him to gather anything except that the man wears his heart on his sleeve. Nothing to do but to take his words at face value.

“They tie in the front here, and at the back,” he explains and loosens the ties of his hakama. “Mine give even other Sakuranbō men pause, because they’re sort of two sets in one, divided in the front, lantern-style in the back. Hang on, I have to stand up for this.” It’s easy to find his metaphorical footing in the process of explaining something, and lightning nerves give way to a more refined calmness when Tyrval stands also and lets Daizō point out the places where his hakama is held up. The viking is even content to take Daizō’s kimono and put it away as neat as he can manage, and it only endears him more.

By the time Tyrval has arranged the kimono where Daizō wanted it, Daizō has untied the last of his hakama and stepped out of it. Tyrval looks up and whistles through his teeth.

“I don’t think you need me to tell you you’re hung, but Loki’s left nut, damn.”

“I’m aware of my body and would prefer no commentary of this sort,” Daizō warns. His tail swishes in vague irritation, but that’s really one of those things he should’ve mentioned beforehand. Ah well.

“That’s fair. Anything else I need to know?” Tyrval approaches and strokes his hand over Daizō’s lower shoulder, then his flank almost soothingly, in a firm, grounding movement. Maybe he just wants something to do with his hands while they talk.

“You’ll want a decent amount of oil. Use both hands. No horse-related comments. If anything else comes up, I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah, I can do that. You wanna, uh, lie down or do this standing up?”

“I’ll lie down.” Daizō gathers his hakama, passes Tyrval some oil and reclines on the futon again, his upper body propped up on his elbows to watch the viking, who doesn’t actually kneel down next to his lower body right away. Instead, Tyrval sits next to his upper body first and pulls Daizō into a thorough kiss. The passionate feel of his mouth soothes some of the anxieties in Daizō and frankly does wonders for his erection, which suffered some through the conversations and undressing.

“Gorgeous. Now, lemme get acquainted.” Tyrval takes up his position between Daizō’s legs, the side of his thigh flush with the line of Daizō’s stomach, slicks up his hands rather generously and takes hold of Daizō’s cock in both hands in his direct, no-nonsense manner.

Daizō almost kicks him with the shock of how slick and warm and firm his grip is. As it is, his leg does twitch, but nowhere near as dangerous as it could have been. Tyrval can tell how hard the tension in him shifted—it’s not like Daizō is working very hard to hide his sensations—and gives him a concerned look.

“Whoah there. Are we good?”

Daizō grits his teeth and fights the urge to hide his face, conceal the flush rising in his cheeks.

“Good. Please, continue. It’s... It’s just been a while. Since someone touched me like this.”

“Ah,” says Tyrval, relaxes visibly. “I get ya. Let me make that up to you then. Treat you extra nice.” He keeps one hand cupped under the head of his dick, curiously traces the other along the middle ring. “You did me so good, so nice for me, least I can do is get you back in return.”

Daizō doesn’t even have a reply for that, just nods when Tyrval looks to him for confirmation. The viking turns back to the task at hand (or, rather, hands). He doesn’t say anything, but the way he wraps his hands around Daizō’s cock tells him he’s sizing it up, getting a feel for the girth and heft of it.

When Tyrval envelops his shaft between his palms and pushes down in one smooth, firm motion, Daizō has to stifle a moan. Those slick hands on him feel incredible and he’s been hard since he got his mouth between Tyrval’s legs, so the sensation of being touched so sure and firm fires through him like lightning.

Tyrval pulls his hands back towards the crown again, his attention on Daizō’s shuddering exhale.

“This good? What do you like?” He traces around the flared head with one slick finger, the sensation a tease that drives Daizō much wilder than he likely intended. He circles his curious touch inward, caresses the dip in the centre; when he rubs his slick fingertip across the extension at the very middle, Daizō almost kicks him again with how intense the sensation is on his sensitive, heated flesh.

“That,” gasps Daizō, once his eyes have stopped rolling back into his head, “is sensitive. Fuck.”

Tyrval drags both thumbs around the outside of his head, watches Daizō shake with the sensation. Daizō gives up on holding up his upper body, collapses onto the blanket.

“Too sensitive? Oh, look at you. I’m gonna take you apart. Does this feel good?”

“Yes, yes,” Daizō nods. It’s good, the rough fingertips on his sensitive, sensitive skin, sends shivers all the way from his tail to the base of his skull. “It’s… it’s a lot. Intense.” He bites back another moan, lower lip between his teeth, hands making fists.

“Is touching the middle too much?” The inexorable press of Tyrval’s fingers continues in steady circles that drive Daizō to the brink of madness.

“Spirits have mercy,” gasps Daizō, wishing for something to hold on to while the curious raider takes him apart. “Not too much if you’re very, very careful. If it’s too much, I may kick you on instinct, so be delicate.”

“I can be careful,” says Tyrval with a rakish, impish note in his voice and shifts. Daizō props himself up to see again—and promptly collapses when Tyrval bends and brushes his lips in the same circle his thumbs were tracing, then follows with a hot, wet tongue. The sensation rolls through Daizō like thunder and he claps his hand over his mouth to stop himself from shouting loud enough to wake the entire monastery.

He can feel Tyrval’s breath on him, making his own shaky. Then Tyrval’s tongue is on him again, light as can be but still shockingly hot, and he just licks straight up across the opening in the glans.

Daizō, through a feat of indomitable iron self-control, does not scream. He stifles the sound into a whimpered breath against his palm, but that is the most he can do to dampen his reaction; his hips jerk, his breathing is shaky and his entire flank quavers feelingly. The tremble goes all the way through his legs.

“You alright there? Was that too much?” comes Tyrval’s rough voice. He pets over Daizō’s quivering flank, firm and grounding, one hand still on his dick.

Daizō takes a moment to calm his body. He breathes deep, swallows hard and gathers himself enough to respond.

“Not too much, but only barely. If you keep that up, I will come.”

“Feels good then?” Tyrval’s strong, affectionate hand strokes over his lower hip.

“Too good.”

“Hey, making you feel good is kind of the point here.” Tyrval pours some more oil into his palm and drags it along the entire length of Daizō’s cock down to the base, then up again. “You liked this, too, right? Feel like you’re fucking something?”

The crude turn of phrase sends a flush up Daizō’s face. His ears burn and he turns his face into the blankets.

“Yes,” he admits. “Please, do it again.”

“Anything you want, Daizō,” says Tyrval, and the gentleness of his voice catches Daizō completely off-guard. Equally shocking is the feeling of Tyrval’s hands, two fists wrapping around his cock again, one over and one under the ring around the middle. For a second, Daizō seizes up again at the feeling. But, again mostly by virtue of his iron self-control, he forces his body to relax. Tyrval will be careful and stop at his behest. Anything he wants. Daizō can trust him with that.

Daizō can trust him, here, naked and bare and far from home.

Tyrval works himself into a comfortable rhythm, working his fists up and down Daizō’s cock. It’s a mess of oil—this blanket is pretty much ruined. To the Underworld with the blanket. Tyrval is right there, working him over with a slow, intense determination, tuned into Daizō’s breathing. Every now and then, he murmurs something, soft encouragements—“you’re doing great” and “just relax for me” and “that’s it, let me treat you nice.” It’s easy, falling into the sensation, when he’s so sure and enthusiastic about it—nothing weird, just the simple want to pleasure a lover. To please a lover. Daizō breathes and falls and feels, feels his pleasure build in his gut, a heady fog.

Tyrval takes a second and rearranges himself again, laying down. He glides his hands down Daizō’s shaft again, and up, and down, and just when Daizō is relaxing into it again, he tips his head forward and drags his lips over the head of Daizō’s dick again. The threat of that nerve-shattering pleasure is enough to bring Daizō to the brink again.

He feels unravelled, unspooled, undone. Tyrval drags him closer to the edge, all demanding hands and soft mouth, and all Daizō can do is clutch at the sheets and breathe, ragged and quick.

And then Tyrval licks straight over the middle of him again, tongue dipping around the centre of his glans, and Daizō tears at the sheets and moans, too good, too much—

“Ah, careful—Tyrval, I’m—” is all he gets out, because Tyrval repeats the motion, one fist just under the head to hold him still, tongue working over his most sensitive spots, and Daizō shudders and comes before he can do anything about it, falling apart with his face buried in the sheets for what feels like minutes and minutes.

Tyrval splutters, somewhere far away. A thread of worry shakes through Daizō, yanks him from his state of boneless pleasure and honeyed joints. He props up his upper body in a haste and sees Tyrval doing the same, the viking’s face a squinty grimace, absolutely and utterly drenched.

A slightly hysterical laugh escapes Daizō that he immediately stifles when he sees a shake to Tyrval’s shoulders. Worry grips him like Setsudan’s teeth, is he—

Tyrval breaks into laughter, wiping ineffectually at his face with the back of his hand. A weight drops off Daizō’s heart.

“Holy shit,” giggles Tyrval, “Gods, that was a lot. Gimme something wipey?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, reaches for a cloth to hand to Tyrval, who buries his mess of a face in it gratefully. He’s still laughing. “I was trying to warn you, but—”

“By the Gods,” mumbles Tyrval. “Shit. What the fuck. That got everywhere. It’s in my _eyes_. How do you—that’s so much!” He smacks his lips and wipes at his eyes. There’s a track down his neck and one that went all the way to his hairline, and the relief that Daizō feels at Tyrval’s casual humour is immeasurable.

“Sorry, sorry—just hang in there, let me fix you up.” Daizō scrambles up on still somewhat shaky legs and leads Tyrval to the washbasin. “There, wash it out.”

Tyrval grunts a thanks and falls silent save for the occasional chuckle while he washes, well, a stallion’s load off his face.

“Odin’s beard. What a mess. You did say careful,” he comments once he’s coherent again, toweling water out of his beard. “And I did come all over your face, so I suppose that was fair. Should’ve been a little more prepared before pointing that monster right at my face. Heh, almost knocked my teeth out. You alright there? Not too much?”

Daizō runs his hand through Tyrval’s hair and leans in, gives him a light kiss. His hair falls around them, like a private little curtain. “Not too much,” he tells him, soft-voiced. “Just right.”

One Mako Genkitsu carefully, carefully slides open the door to Nakamura’s quarters. Stealthy as a cat, he shifts his weight into the room, silent on the tatami. A heavier breath gives him pause and he freezes.

That sure is Nakamura, fast asleep on his futon. Very very naked. His hair a mess. One arm and one of his front legs flung over Tyrval, who is also very, _very_ naked.

Maybe, this Mako Genkitsu thinks to himself, just maybe I should have done this tomorrow.

Ah well. The damage is done. He pads across the room and lifts Nakamura’s copious amounts of armour. The lacquered plates click against each other despite his best efforts and Tyrval mumbles something in his sleep that the spell doesn’t bother to translate.

“Having flawless memory is a curse,” he says when he sets the armour down in the workshop. “I’ll never be able to unsee it.”

“Yeah, you’re fucked,” says Apples and grins.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave me a like?
> 
> Apples is... imagine Stitch from Lilo&Stitch, but as a magic robot creature with a gun in its mouth. I miss Apples.


End file.
